Family Values
by RoseLight
Summary: When Illya's adopted UNCLE and his birth family both tug on him, could it create a family feud? A fresh imagining of the Russian's background.


Family Values

Illya Kuryakin responded promptly to his superior's summons. But sitting across from him was not his partner and CEA Napoleon Solo, but a stranger in an elegant suit. The observant agent took in his thatch of gray hair, the glasses tipped on his patrician nose, the chain on his pocket watch swishing with each impatient twitch of his left foot. The briefcase on his lap was creased leather.

Waverly cleared his throat and refrained from reaching for his favored prop. The pipe stood alert in its stand as a soldier at attention, awaiting orders. Kuryakin was feeling a bit like that himself.

"Mr. Kuryakin, this is Walter Bennington of Bennington and Breck, Baltimore. He has some…ah…interesting news for you. Mr. Bennington…" Waverly was acting like the master of ceremonies at an award show. As Kuryakin scoured his memory, he could not remember any connection to Baltimore. If he'd been given some time to check his archives….

"It's a family matter, Mr…ah…Kuryakin. I represent the interests of your mother."

Illya frowned. "My mother died in the war. Latina Rousstakova Kuryakina. If she has any interest, I'm certain it is not in Baltimore."

The attorney pulled out a thick file, and lay several documents on the table before the taciturn agent. There was a black and white photograph, a birth certificate, various legal papers . It was the photograph that drew the young man's attention. He studied it silently , picked it up by one corner as if it might burn his fingers. Still refused to comment.

"Your mother, Merry Valentine Russell, met your father, Alexi Ilyich Kuryakin in Paris. She was studying ballet—her parents did not approve, but she had a trust from her grandparents. She adopted the name Valentina Rousseau. Your father was a junior in the diplomat service. They were young and spirited and—Paris, spring…" Bennington shrugged. "Old Madame Kuryakina stormed the continent in a rage. But by then, so had the Nazis. Your father took the uniform of his country, your mother's family secreted her back to the United States. But you, your grandmother insisted you be christened in the family church in Kiev."

"It has been a long time since I trusted fairy tales." The Russian dismissed Bennington's account.

"My dear fellow. Your mother has never stopped searching for you. Her inheritance has been absorbed in private detectives for decades. The agency has collected interviews, legal records, transcripts, depositions—we have the research verified. You are Russell Ilyich Kuryakin, and heir to your mother's estate. It is considerable…" he added, " as her family are The Russells of Baltimore." He awaited the young man's gasp, which did not come. "They -and now, you, are one of The 25," he amended, to explain the importance of his newfound heritage.

"The 25 what?" Kuryakin was puzzled rather than impressed.

Bennington looked to Waverly, whom he assumed would understand the import of this announcement.

Waverly attempted to clarify. "Mr—ah—Kuryakin, your life is about to change radically. The Russells, your mother's people, are among the top 25 families of Baltimore society. You'll have a new raft of family to meet, enhanced financial standing. In fact, as the natural child of an American citizen, you'll have dual citizenship." He was trying to encourage his protégé to see this startling news as a positive personal change.

"Sir…?" Illya was still unconvinced. "I would…appreciate it greatly if our legal section could. .."

"We have verified the communications. I insisted, before you were informed. Mr. Kuryakin," Waverly half rose from his chair and shook Illya's hand, "you are now a rich American."

2

In the end, it was of course his partner who convinced the erstwhile Russian to investigate this new-found family connection himself. Waverly offered him an escort from Legal to accompany him, for protection of his rights. Kuryakin declined, concerned that it could be seen by the family as a hostile move.

"I'm an intruder, Napoleon," he tried to make his partner understand his feelings. "They could think I've come to demand an inheritance, to make a scandal in their city."

"You're family, Illya," Solo repeated. "They've been searching for you; they want to meet you. If nothing else, they're curious."

"Curious," the blond repeated. He already felt like a foreign attraction in a zoo, to be poked at and studied and stared at. He'd been through that experience before, when he'd arrived in New York. It had not been pleasant. Only through Napoleon's sponsorship, and his outstanding work, had Kuryakin come to belong. Now he was being challenged again.

"What if they don't like me? Waiting all this time, what if I disappoint them?"

"What if you don't like them? So what. You never have to see them again. Lawyers will handle all the paperwork, and you come home to your precious independent little rat hole. With a pot of cash and the security of American citizenship, I might add. But just think of the positive possibilities…" his optimistic friend encouraged. "You've discovered a whole new family, your blood, people who are inexorably bound to you. A whole new side of yourself to discover…that should at least tempt the detective in you."

"A stranger confronts me; a handful of papers and photos. And suddenly I am this new person I do not know. Everything I believed to be true about myself., everything I've based my life on…is like dust. It's rather….disconcerting, you know."

Solo put an arm around his friend's shoulder. "Would you care for some company? Give me a chance to see how The Other 24 live?" he teased.

Illya was genuinely touched. "I appreciate the offer, Napoleon. But I feel this is something I must face myself. If I decide to proceed," he added darkly.

3

Baltimore was a short flight from the city, but Kuryakin elected to drive. It would give him time to think. It would give him immediate transportation, should escape be necessary. Pragmatic as always, he set his face grimly. He always imagined that trait came from his childhood struggles. Perhaps he would learn it came from a tenacious rich American. Illya was still wondering if he wanted to learn anything at all about these Russells who had pursued him all these years. But the gossip was now all over HQS and he was prideful enough to refuse to display fear before his colleagues.

Bennington's directions led him to a substantial stone building, grand but not imposing.

I probably have to check in here at the servants' quarters before I follow the trail to the gates of the master house, he thought snobbishly. His soviet training was overriding his good sense and impartial mindset. Illya strained to keep his imagination and prejudice tied down. At least give them a chance, he repeated Solo's parting advice to himself.

He parked the rental smoothly and made the short hike up the gravel drive. The building sat back off the private road, and he was greeted with a profusion of flowers along the path, and surrounding the porch, and ivy trailing up the sides. "Well, at least they provide their servants a pleasant place to work," he thought.

He knocked, less tentatively than he felt. He heard steps scurrying across the carpet, and the door was flung open by a woman with a vaguely familiar face.

"Oh…!" it was all she could say at first. "Oh, my goodness. You're real…" she breathed, then backed up to allow him entrance. Her eyes never left his face. "You're here," she smiled as the tears sprinkled her face like spring rain. "Please, please come in and welcome home." She shook his hand and drew him inside. "I told myself I wasn't going to do this—I'm sorry," she sniffed and determined to control her greeting so as not to frighten him off. "But it is so wonderful…" she continued to hold his hand. "Dear Mr. Kuryakin—Cousin Illya, if I may."

Kuryakin was rather uncomfortable with her display of emotion, still, it was nice to know he was not the only one nervous. "Certainly, Miss—Cousin—"

"Claudia," she whispered, the strength of his handshake calming her. "Claudia Standish Russell." She stood several inches shorter than Illya, a petite woman about a decade older than himself. Her flaxen hair was bobbed and swung playfully when she moved her head. Her smile was genuine and her eyes; it was not the color that attracted him, but the expression, merry and full of life. This cousin Claudia was not at all the dulled, bored aristocrat he had anticipated.

They settled in a comfortable parlour , Illya relaxing a bit at his warm welcome, and Claudia's face lit with joy.

"I'm not certain where to begin," he admitted.

"Ah. Of course. This whole encounter is…extraordinary. I'll start if you like…?"

He nodded his consent.

Claudia took a deep breath. " Well, there are three of us Russells left. I'm the spinster sister, I live here," she waved her arm around to include their sitting space. "Paul's oldest, and the one with all the kids, so we figured he could best use all the space at the farm—it's out to the east. We can drive out later this week, but we didn't want to overwhelm you with family right off the bat. There's horses and such, he keeps an office there. He's married to Gwynne—here, let me get the album—" she interrupted herself to grab a photo album she'd left on a bench before the bay window, and began pointing out Illya's new family. "You'll love Paul, he's a hoot, and not a bit stuffy. Henry's youngest—he's attached to Navy Intelligence, so he's traveling a lot. He got special leave to meet you, so he'll be coming in a couple days. Meanwhile, I hope you'll stay here." Her face really did look hopeful to him. " It's really a lovely old house, and there's plenty of privacy. Oh, my manners! I've just hustled you in here and –would you like some tea?"

Illya smiled, assuming her mouth was already dry, and apparently this was just the prologue. He also assumed she would ring for assistance. "Tea would be lovely, thank you," he acknowledged, still on his best behavior. He was a bit surprised to see Claudia leap to her feet and dash off in the direction of the kitchen.

"Just be a jiffy," she called back to him.

The parlour was furnished with antiques, in keeping with his expectations. The walls and fabric were various shades of blue, cool and restful. It seemed to be a peaceful place to grow up; very different than his own experience. One wall was all glass, leading out to a shady garden. He began to notice that his breathing had deepened and slowed, the serenity of the place easing his initial tension.

He pulled the album onto his lap and began to gaze at the faces. Strangers to him, yet some connection of genetics that he could not deny. He paged backwards to the older pictures, staring at a very young woman in white. A page later, a young man in a national dress uniform that he recognized.

"Tea for Two," Claudia sang and bounced back into the parlor , carrying the silver tray herself. "My goodness, just having you in the house has given me so much energy!" she declared. "What?" She caught his puzzled expression.

He stammered, a little ashamed to be caught in his expectations "I—well, I had been led to believe-" he began carefully.

"Of course," she understood instantly. "The whole "rich thing." There is family money, of course. Walter Bennington has been handling the details for years. We've kept your mother's share invested for you."

Kuryakin sighed. "I suppose I shall need to fit him into this visit, too." He was reluctant to spend his rare off-duty time with lawyers, bankers and paperwork.

Claudia shook her head and smiled affectionately. "My dear, you are a Russell—a very important client. Walter will see you at your convenience, not his. In fact, he'll meet you or your advisers in New York if you prefer." She paused. "As far as our social status goes-well, you may be disappointed, or simply relieved. This generation of Russells are the progressive eccentrics. Myself, I prefer solitude to simpering society. And I find it good for the soul to keep the place in working order by myself. Refreshing for the spirit, you know. I dust my own bookshelves and dig in my own garden and when I'm feeling par-tic-u-lar-ly feisty, I belt out a few show tunes." She raised her eyebrows at that, as if it were slightly suspect in Baltimore circles. "Really gets the gossip going," Claudia confided, grinning as if she were delighted to be different. "Used to bicycle around the city til my knee gave out."

"So, you don't usually hobnob—"

"With the Other 24?" She chuckled and dismissed two dozen millionaires with a wave of her hand. "Not unless there's mischief to be made."

Illya was becoming fascinated by this spunky woman, even to the point of accepting that maybe she did have a connection to his past. And perhaps his future.

She was observant, too. "Your mother," her mood quieted at once, when she saw the open page in the album. "That was her debutante photo. Sweet 16, and already a rebel. She was my hero," Claudia sighed. "She encouraged me in the most outrageous things.

Aunt Valley was—well, 'spirited'—was the way the family put it. Adventurous. Strong-hearted. The family indulged her fancies, but she didn't want to be indulged. She demanded to be taken seriously, and her determination to study abroad was her declaration of independence. Then of course she met Alexi, your father and ….well, see here," Claudia halted and produced a faded pink and black hat box. "Her diaries. Some letters. Yours, now. I hope someday—"

At first he would not touch the box. "I had one mother, and it's like I've lost her twice," he mumbled. Silence fell between them.

"It's been a very stimulating beginning," Claudia yawned and stretched, sweeping up from the sofa. "The west wing is yours, up the stairs and left—the bedroom, bath, library. My rooms and office are down the hall. Gwynne—Paul's wife, she's a sweetie- always keeps my fridge stocked—she's the one with the help, but with all those kids and that massive place, she needs it. So feel free to raid the pantry." Claudia wound down slowly, put her hand on his arm, and stood on tiptoes to plant a kiss on his golden head. "We're good people," she whispered. "Good night. I hope you'll like us."

4

All it took was one early supper at Fritz's for Solo to inveigle new probationary officer Madge Tasselman to polish up the backlog of his mission reports. Who knows—they might even display more literary pizazz than the prosaic products of his partner's pen.

It had been four days and not one contact from Illya. Not a silver beep or a singing telegram or a carrier pigeon or a smoke signal. Not that Solo was concerned. Of course, he was very…happy that his partner seemed... happy. Happy enough not to contact him. Must mean he was having an engaging visit, right? Unless perhaps this mystery family had bound him up in a sack and tossed him into the swift current of the river. For some reason or other. Maybe they were not eager to split the money after all these years. Maybe these snobs did not want to acknowledge a Commie-gypsy-cousin.

Perhaps Solo was just antsy because he had been anchored at the office for days. There were administrative duties with his position as CEA, and this drydock seemed a good time to dive into them. Or maybe he'd just have Madge check a map of Baltimore for local rivers

There were several operations that needed agents assigned—however, none requiring any special talents of the Russian in question. Solo could call a meeting of station chiefs of the original colonial states and have them gather in Baltimore. No, too obvious. But he was becoming concerned.

Illya had bid him a gloomy farewell, and for all Solo knew, the agent had reconsidered this awkward family reunion and taken off for a relaxing holiday in Quebec. But he knew his partner better than that. If anything, Illya had taken off to a relaxing physics conference in Quebec.

Solo's private line buzzed and he leapt on it.

"Napoleon?"

"Illya, where are youuuu—having a good time?" Solo caught his tongue.

"Just checking in . If I'm not needed immediately I thought I might take a few more days…?"

"Well, the world is still turning, and you've got the vacation time accrued. Spending the vast Russell fortune, are we? Meeting the other 24?"

"It's a most interesting visit. Henry's just gotten in from Guam and Claudia's threatening to set me up with her friend and the twins have insisted I show them a judo throw they can execute on each other and Gwynne's baking blackberry cobbler and Paul's shown me the best jazz spot in the city and –" Lively words seem to tumble faster and faster from his usually reticent friend.

"Sounds like you're busy, Tovarish," Solo laughed. "just give me a buzz so I'll when to expect you and put your name back into contention. Uh…you do plan to come back to work, right?"

"What? Of course."

To Solo, the response seemed a little too quick, almost as though his partner had not fully considered any other possibility. Yet.

"It's a whole new world…like discovering buried treasure. These are extraordinary people, Napoleon.. Thank you for encouraging me to take the chance."

"Well, enjoy your time and bring me back a crab cake." He clicked off and even though Solo still had no clear idea of all his friend was jabbering about, he could not mistake the enthusiasm in his voice.

He had never actually believed that Kuryakin would ever leave UNCLE . Illya was as committed as Solo himself. But lesser incentives had turned the heads of other worthy agents. Wealth and comfort and an honest life; family and safety and leisure and independence—at that rate, Solo might convince himself to quit.

5

"You took my son. I take yours." It was the last chilling correspondence that Illya's grandmother had left to his distraught young mother.

Claudia was a gracious hostess and understood that the Russian would need some personal time to acclimate himself to the avalanche of new information about himself and his family. She took the day to work on Russell Foundation business, and left her new-found cousin to his own inventive devices.

Illya found the gray rain a perfect backdrop to his investigation. He lit a fire in the stone fireplace in the library, set a tea tray with assorted nibbles on a low table, and carried in the hatbox reverently as if it held all the answers to the mysteries of the universe.

He was heartened to learn that Merry Valentine—his mother—how strange that was to contemplate—was a dedicated journaler from the age of 12, so he indulged in some memories of her early years. But their upbringings had been so diverse, it was like reading about a fictional character, so he skipped ahead to the Paris years.

It was here that her lively insights resonated with his own heart, and he felt an indefinable pull between them. He followed the path of his parents' romance, their first enchanted meeting, the sweetness and depth and immediacy of their passion, the ill-advised elopement. "Not that we regret a thing!" she declared heedlessly to her diary, "but eventually we shall be required to reveal all to Papa, and to the formidable Madame K, as she is referred to in diplomatic circles here.( How could someone as sweet and strong as my Alexi have such a fearsome parent?)"

Kuryakin read of the giddy innocence of the pair, their charming sense of the invulnerability of their love. The gathering threat of war around them was barely recorded; all was joy and discovery. The discovery of his presence made his mother-to-be positively rhapsodic.

But the world almost never bows aside for lovers or love, and certainly the Nazis would not be the exception. Even his father's contacts among the diplomats and military were closing their eyes optimistically. When the concerned young father attempted to make arrangements for his family to be shipped to the States, normal transportation routes and simple passports were no longer enough. And his Valentina trusted that he was all the security she would ever need. The only way he convinced her to consider a retreat to America was dangling their son's welfare before her. His diplomatic status would be withdrawn, and as an honorable man, he would join the military of his homeland. But Madame Kuryakina wove her own arrangements behind the confusing scene; the escape became instead a double kidnapping. She took the infant, of course, and let the distracting debutante's parents deal with the silly stranger who had bewitched her only son.

Claudia dropped her briefcase at the door and went searching for her cousin. She followed the chill to the library.

"You know about—you've read this?" He did not turn his head to greet her.

Claudia did not shrink from the quiet accusation. "Yes. We needed the details for the investigation."

"Yet you did not see fit to prepare me for—"

"Madame was the only family you've ever known. How could I tarnish her memory for you? I wrestled over trying to influence you," Claudia confessed, " but the Russells play fair."

"And the Kuryakins?" he probed for some residual bitterness.

"Created you," she answered without hesitation. "It's their great gift to us."

Illya blinked his burning eyes. Suddenly he was very weary. "Enough history lesson." He fashioned the ribboned lid back onto the hat box, for contemplation another day.

"The fire's nearly out," he observed. " I hadn't noticed. Is it still raining? My turn to make you tea," he offered.

"You're a handy fellow to have around the house," Claudia replied lightly.

"And I believe my cue is 'how was your day at the office, Dear?' And by the way, what exactly do you do?"

"The Russell Foundation," his cousin explained between sips, "is an investigatory service, dedicated to linking displaced children with their families." She held the focus of his unwavering gaze. "Yes. You, dear Cuz, are our patron saint. What?" she saw him shake his head.

"Just the notion of my sanctification."

"Grandfather's contacts returned Aunt Valley bodily to Baltimore, but she was never Merry Valentine again. She was strangely and serenely quiet, like a pond with no ripples. So I pestered her detectives to show me their work: how to skip trace, develop leads, confirm documents." Claudia waited for his permission to continue.

"And then…?"

"You need to know she always believed, she never stopped hoping—for you, and your father. Her last words to me…'I failed to find them in this world; I'll search for them in the next.'"

6

"We'll see you for Christmas, if not before," Claudia reminded him, with one more hug beside his car.

"Ah, actually…" he hesitated, "I usually volunteer for the holiday shifts, so the agents with families—"

Claudia cut him off. "YOU are now the- agent- with- family. No excuses accepted. You owe us three decades of presents!" she shook a finger under his nose.

"Yes, M'am."

# # # # # #

"—and then she repeated her offer to join the family firm." Illya had met Napoleon for drinks to celebrate his homecoming.

"And of course you said nepotism was in conflict with your Socialist values," Solo teased innocently. He had missed teasing his partner.

"It's a worthy enterprise, Napoleon. Claudia insists that with my skills and contacts, I could be a valuable resource. I'd be proud to be a part of her work."

"You're already a valuable resource right here, and proud to be part of my work. Right?"

"You could always requisition a clerk to fill out your reports…" the Russian teased innocently. He had missed teasing his partner.

"You did mention to Cousin Claudia that you are already gainfully employed, and have only two more years until your pension is totally vested—Right?"

"Madge Tasselman has left her calendar on my desk."

"Right?"

"Well, we need to have a conversation about the holiday schedule."

finis


End file.
